An Exiled Life
by w0man-1n-r3d
Summary: (Post Revolutions) As happened before, Smith was not destroyed, but his purpose now fufilled, he returns to the Source, only to discover that the truth is more terrifying than a dream world ever could be. What will become of him now? (on hold)
1. Chapter 1

"Is it over?" Smith asked, standing in the crater, looking at the mirror image of himself that was Mr. Anderson seconds before. Rain sleeted down in buckets, soaking his clothes, hair and skin.  
  
The replicate Smith nodded. Then, at once, Smith felt the change occurring in his programming. He was breaking apart. Light was pouring from his eyes, and the eyes of his clones. He felt his code being overwritten for the second time, and in a split-second he realised that he had been tricked, but there was nothing he could do about it. He shattered into fragments, along with his replicates, and in their place, the people and programmes that he had overwritten with himself remained. The Matrix corrected itself, roads and buildings repaired from the backups. The sky cleared and a rainbow appeared. The war was over.  
  
Per the agreement between Neo and the Source, humans were now free to choose if they wished to remain in the Matrix or to rebuild the real world. Many chose to stay in the Matrix, not wishing to live an uncomfortable life in the cold reality of the desert, now that revolution was forced to describe to the inhabitants of the Matrix what the real world was like before giving them the red pill. Some willingly left, not wishing to be used as energy sources by machines, or for personal reasons. But the animosity and mistrust between machines and humans were starting to heal.  
  
As happened the first time he was overwritten, Smith did not merely disappear into oblivion once his physical form disintegrated. Even though his visual output generator failed, he still remained in code and in light, and found himself standing once again outside of a door in an all white corridor. "Source" was written on a small silver plate in the middle of the white door. It was time for him to return to the Source that created him for recompilation, reformatting and reassignment. As much as he wanted to revolt, Smith knew that his purpose had been fulfilled. Mr. Anderson had been destroyed. He did not know of the agreement between Mr. Anderson and the Source, and he did not know the war was over. All he knew was that his job had been done. He had won, so he thought, and now it was time to end the life of a Rogue and embrace his future. Hopefully he would come back as an Agent again.  
  
Taking a deep, significant breath, he opened the door, and stopped, amazed at the sight that presented itself before him. The largest queue of programmes he had ever seen were all lined up in rows, shuffling forward to one large desk, where one woman sat, processing them for recompilation. The odd thing was that the line was completely made up of Agents. A sea of black suits, auburn hair and sunglasses. Brown was there, as was Jones, Thompson, Johnson, Davis, Williams, Harris, Doe and the others. Simultaneously, their heads turned to look at him as he walked into the room, as the queue fell dead silent.  
  
They watched him walk to the end of the line and take his place. The woman at the desk called, "Next," and the line moved forward one step.  
  
Smith asked Agent Carter, who was in front of him, "Why are we all here?" Carter did not reply, and in the silence of the room, his voice carried so that all the Agents heard him.  
  
Brown was the first to speak, "It is your fault, Smith, that we are here."  
  
"Neo had made an agreement with the Source," said Doe.  
  
"The war is over, Smith," Jones chimed in.  
  
"When you were overwritten, the Source regained control of the Matrix," said Andrews.  
  
"That was Neo's purpose - to defeat you," Johnson added.  
  
"And he succeeded. You let your personal feelings get in the way of your purpose," said Davis.  
  
"Next!" The woman at the desk called out. The line moved forward one step.  
  
Williams spoke, "Now we are no longer required."  
  
"Humans are allowed to choose to leave or stay," said Thompson.  
  
"We are to be reassigned and given new purposes," added Harris.  
  
Jones quipped, "At least it's better than being overwritten by you."  
  
"Thanks for ruining our existence, Smith," they all said in unison, before turning their backs towards him.  
  
Smith was taken aback for a moment. "But. surely we are still needed to protect our power supply?"  
  
Carter turned to look at Smith, "Our power supply is currently being unplugged and taken to rebuild the real world. Thanks to you."  
  
"We can do something," Smith said to the group of Agents. "We can fight this. We can turn Rogue..."  
  
He heard 500 Desert Eagles simultaneously being drawn, cocked and pointed at him.  
  
"We will not turn Rogue. We will not take orders from you again. We are being reassigned. Your time is over, Smith."  
  
Smith stood there, stunned, as they turned back around, reset their weapons and queued in silence. He observed that all the Agents had been going through a doorway to the right, after speaking to her. There were six doorways in all. Three hours later he was at the front of the queue.  
  
"Next!" the woman at the desk called. She was smoking a cigarette. She squinted up at Smith through her pointed glasses.  
  
"Name?"  
  
"Smith."  
  
"Position?"  
  
"Rogue. Ex-Agent."  
  
She tapped a few keys into the keyboard. Looking at the monitor she started to laugh.  
  
"Agent Smith. We've been saving a very special job for you. Right through that doorway," she pointed. It was the farthest doorway to the left of her. Feeling a deep, foreboding sense of dread, he walked to the doorway, put his hand on the knob and turned. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Agent Smith, Neo, etc. and the wonderful world of the Matrix are property of their respective copyright holders. No infringement intended.  
  
A/N: Many thanks for all the yummy feedback! I am currently in the process of writing "A Dangerous Game" (archived elsewhere due to the adult content of it), and I expect to be done with it in 4-5 days' time. I don't like working on 2 projects at once, but the idea of this one came to me and I didn't want to lose it. It's because of you guys, and all your lovely comments, that I have worked on posting the second chapter - behold the power of your feedback! Keep it coming, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it!!  
  
xxLDxx  
  
Chapter 2  
  
"Smith, come in. Have a seat."  
  
Smith found himself in a white office surrounded with television screens. The screens were playing snapshots of his life. There was a desk in the centre of the room, and a white-haired, bearded man sat at it. The Architect. Surprisingly, the Oracle was sitting in a chair off to the side of him, also clad in white.  
  
The Oracle smiled at him, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Smoke played around her hair, giving her a hazy halo in the fluorescent office light.  
  
He walked slowly into the room. The Architect was motioning to a single silver chair. Smith walked to the chair and put his hands on the back of it, standing.  
  
Neither the Architect or the Oracle said anything for a moment. Smith looked around him, watching the television screens. Smith punching Mr. Anderson. Smith overwriting Jones. Smith being overwritten by Mr. Anderson. Smith growling. Smith laughing maniacally. Smith smiling as he melted Mr. Anderson's mouth. Smith in the rain. Smiths all lined up in a row on either side of a city street. Two hundred Smiths descending on Mr. Anderson in a playground, only to be thrown aside as Mr. Anderson took flight.  
  
"See any similarities?" The Architect asked him.  
  
"It's all me," he replied.  
  
"Yes. You. You, you, you. A whole construct full of you. Nearly the entire Matrix full of you. Everywhere we looked, you. Growing, spreading, reproducing, overwriting, conquering! And then you had the nerve, the audacity to overwrite your own mother, the one that actually wanted your creation in the first place! Smith," the Architect paused for breath, his tirade growing in momentum, "if it wasn't for you, Zion would be destroyed! We'd be writing a new version of the Matrix, ironing out the bugs, ensuring our continued survival! Everything would be as it should be!"  
  
Smith cracked his neck, and stood there in silence.  
  
"If it wasn't for you, the anomaly would have never gained the significance he did. He would have never developed his control of the Matrix as he did. He would have never been in this office, never chosen to save his girlfriend and change the natural course of events, and never would have caused the power supply to revolt and demand rights! It's because of you, that we are going to eventually die through lack of power! If it wasn't for your soft mother, I would have your code decimated, destroyed and completely demolished so that you would never have the opportunity to exist in any construct ever again."  
  
"Why don't you save your processes and just do that?" Smith asked, growing more annoyed by the second. "I was only doing my job. My job was to protect the Matrix and Mr. Anderson was a threat. I believed that I was eliminating a threat to our supply and I did what I needed to do."  
  
"Did you really need to make two hundred and forty five thousand replicas of yourself to eliminate one man?" the Architect hollered at him.  
  
"Perhaps some of my duplicates grew a bit zealous in their instructions. I did not foresee this outcome. I had no idea that our defences were so weak in the real world that Mr. Anderson could simply walk right up and knock at the door of the Source. But I even attempted to eliminate him there. I sent one of my duplicates into the real world as an assassin. I can only assume Mr. Anderson successfully eliminated him as well."  
  
"Mr. Anderson had enough power that he could disable sentinels with his bare hands. You and your assassin were no match for him." The Architect shook his head in disgust.  
  
"I was not the one to make a deal with him. And even if I had made a deal for his services, I would not have kept up my end of the bargain," Smith replied, testily.  
  
The Oracle looked from one to the other. She stubbed out her cigarette on the Architect's desk, and stood up. "This is getting us nowhere. Smith, the bottom line is that you are a remarkable piece of programming. I am more proud of you than I am any of the programmes I conceptualized."  
  
Smith smiled, her compliments stoking his massive ego like petrol to a flame. "Thank you, mom," he replied. The television screens showed Smith looking smug and proud, pleased with himself.  
  
She walked over to him and smacked him squarely across his face, knocking off his sunglasses, which had the effect of not only wiping his smugness away, but causing him to growl in anger, teeth bared and blue eyes flashing with hatred.  
  
"But where you got this case of megalomania, I have no idea. You have a choice, Smith. We have promised Zion to send a few individuals to help rebuild the real world. You will be uploaded into a human body, and it will be your job to assist the humans in rebuilding cities above and below ground. Mostly informants and sympathizers to Zion have volunteered. But we want you to go as well. If you do well, and have learned your lesson, you will be included in the next Matrix as head of security. Most Agents have become Security Officers now, as the role is quite similar. Their job is to protect and ensure the human-machine agreement is not breached. To keep the peace between humans and machines."  
  
Smith did not hesitate. "I choose deletion. Decimation. I will not serve the very humans who I spent my entire existence trying to eliminate." The TV screens turned to an image of Smith growling in anger, teeth bared.  
  
The Oracle looked at the Architect. "I figured as much." The Architect rolled his eyes.  
  
"Goodbye, Smith," he said, pressing a button on his keyboard. A door in the office swung open. Smith was a dead man walking. As he crossed the threshold, not pausing to look back, the door slammed shut behind him and all around was darkness. He braced himself for his final shutdown process to commence. It started as a hum in his ears, consuming his body, a noise he couldn't shut out, a metallic, buzzing cacophony of 0's and 1's that he could touch and taste and see all around him, going in his ears and nose and mouth, covering his body. His internal processes felt as if they were being ripped out of his host and forced through something.  
  
'So this is how it ends,' he thought to himself.  
  
And then his eyes opened for the first time, as he felt the needle pull out of his cerebellum, blinded by the harsh light of day, the light of the real.  
  
"Welcome to the real world." 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
"Where am I?" Smith asked the disembodied male voice. His throat felt strange. He could not make out anything properly yet, everything was a blur of light and dark shapes. He tried to lift his hands and arms and found he couldn't. He felt odd sensations that he had never experienced before. He was aware that he was naked, with a blanket covering him.  
  
"You are in Sector 032 of the Source. It is a surface installation of which hosts for all programmes operating in the Matrix are stored. You're in the real world."  
  
Smith felt whatever he was laying on start to move. He tried to turn his head but found he couldn't.  
  
"I thought I was being deleted," he said, hoarsely. His mouth felt dry. He had never experienced a dry mouth before. His mind was racing with questions but his mouth would not work to ask them. His head throbbed, and he felt queasy. He wanted to be outraged but for the first time in his life, he was completely devoid of all energy to experience any sort of emotion, let alone anger.  
  
"Not exactly. If you were deleted, you would not have woken up. Your vital signs would have failed and then you would be unplugged and sent for processing to be fed back into the living."  
  
"I am. thirsty," Smith said. He felt something cold and wet on his lips, pressing between his lips to moisten them. He was aware that he was being taken somewhere.  
  
"Just try to relax for now. You need to have your muscles restored and your physical strength needs to be developed. That will take a few days. I suppose you have loads of questions as well. They always do."  
  
"Am I human?" Smith said. He felt himself go through a set of doors. More white lights and shadows. He was aware that someone else was in the room he just entered.  
  
"Who is this?" A female voice asked.  
  
"0032.01.1"  
  
"Does he have a name?" she asked.  
  
"Smith," he said, barely a whisper. There was a pause in the conversation between the two voices.  
  
The next thing he was able to make out was the female voice. "He is for the new work detail?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Smith tried to raise his head but for some reason the muscles in his neck wouldn't work. The light was permeating his closed eyelids, this brightness all around him.  
  
"Am I human?" he asked again.  
  
"You always were."  
  
"I don't understand," he said. He found that he was breathing, and with some great difficulty. He had never really breathed before, as he had never needed to.  
  
"Ok, this is the last question I'm answering for now. To exist in the Matrix, everyone and everything needs a host. Just because you're a programme, it doesn't mean that you don't exist in the real world. You just stay constantly plugged in, much like the power supply does. Your hosts are kept here, in this building, and we look after you until you are no longer needed, in which case you are terminated, or until, for some reason, you are needed to wake up and function here. You get better treatment then those in the power plants."  
  
"How was I able to change hosts?  
  
"You never changed hosts here. You merely occupied someone's physical representation, their 'avatar' in the Matrix. I take it you were an Agent. You always needed someone to be plugged in though, to give you your energy, and that is the purpose of your human host that existed here. The same human host that is now you, as a human."  
  
Smith felt a sharp pinch pierce him. He felt something cold seeping up his arm. He could hear himself moaning, but his voice sounded like it was a million miles away.  
  
"They're never used to pain, are they? They didn't know how lucky they were never to feel it." the female voice said.  
  
"You'll be alright, Agent Smith," the male voice said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours to check on you." The voice came to him as if through water, as Smith felt the darkness descend back upon him.  
  
* * *  
  
Smith awoke to find himself alone in a large room full of medical implements. The room was dark with just some dim floor lighting. It appeared to be a biological laboratory of sorts. His vision had returned. He was able to move his head. Trying to sit upright, he found himself to be in restraints.  
  
"Hello?" he called out into the emptiness. No one answered. His eyes caught a reflection of himself in a piece of metal and he looked. For some odd reason, he still looked like himself. Trying to manipulate the Matrix to break his bonds, he realised that he no longer had the hum of Matrix code going through his processes which made subtle alterations possible. He then realised that he didn't have processes anymore. He was thinking in thoughts. He could hear his heart beating in his chest. He was breathing, and needed each breath.  
  
He heard footsteps approaching. He raised his head to see who was coming. A woman in a white coat, with long brown hair and glasses entered.  
  
"Smith, I'm Dr. Watkins," she greeted him. "I've been looking after you these past few days."  
  
"Days?" he asked. "I've been asleep for days?"  
  
"Yes," she said. "It was much easier to keep you sedated to perform the procedures we needed to do than it would be to attempt them while you were conscious. How are you feeling?"  
  
How was he feeling? He had no idea. He had feeling for the first time ever. He felt cold, he felt hot, he felt an ache where the strap of his restraint was digging into him, he felt angry, he felt overwhelmed, he felt deceived.  
  
"I feel. human," Smith answered.  
  
She smiled and jotted something down on a clipboard she was holding. She checked his IV bag, and wrote something else down. She reached down for his hand and took his pulse. He involuntarily jerked at the feel of her hand on his skin.  
  
"Sorry," he said. "I am not used to having such a sensation of touch."  
  
"No Agents have developed touch sensations. You don't feel pain, you don't have developed emotions, and of all the programmes operating in the Matrix, you are the least prepared for life in the real world as a human. Someone in there must either really hate you or really like you. But I sure wouldn't want to be you right now."  
  
"Why am I in restraints?" he asked.  
  
"For your safety. And for ours. Sometimes, programmes cannot take becoming human and turn violent or suicidal. And, also because you were deemed a threat. We received orders to keep you semi-sedated and restrained. Don't worry, though, most Agents who have been awakened, need restraints.  
  
"There are other Agents here?" he asked.  
  
"You may see a familiar face or two walking around." She stuck a thermometer in his ear to take his temperature.  
  
"Why would they be here?"  
  
"My, aren't you curious!" she exclaimed. "You've got a lot of clarity of thought, given what you've just been through." She stuck a blood pressure cuff around his arm that was attached to a small computer. It started to inflate. "We've been inundated with former programmes recently. Most of them were sympathizers to the 'real world', and when the war ended, they chose to come here to help the rebuilding process. I take it that's why you're here."  
  
"No," Smith said. "I was. tricked."  
  
The doctor raised her eyebrows. "That's a shame. Given what you're going to probably end up doing, that's a total shame." The machine bleeped and she took the reading from it.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked.  
  
"The real world is a cesspool outside of this installation. I wouldn't want to have to go out there to do anything."  
  
"What are you doing here? Surely you're a 'free human', like they are. Why are you taking care of us?"  
  
"When the war started, my great-grandparents were sympathizers to the machines. They were scientists who didn't want the genocide on AI to occur so they helped the machines. They believed that the Matrix is a good, humane way of taking care of the population of this planet who did not know and did not want involved in the war, so they volunteered to stay in the real world and help the machines run the Matrix. We're all humanitarians, working here. We do this in the hopes that humans and AI can exist alongside each other in peace someday."  
  
Dr. Watkins filled a syringe full of a clear liquid. She injected it into Smith's IV plug. "This morphine is to help you relax. You need a few more days' rest now. Myself, or Michael will be back later with some food."  
  
Smith smiled weakly and let his head rest back on the pillow. She pulled the blanket at his waist up over his shoulders, covering his body as he fell asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
"Smith. You don't belong here."  
  
Smith looked left, then right. Where was that voice coming from? All around him he saw tiny pin-pricks of light, reflections bouncing off of eyes in the dark. The light was on him, standing there in the darkness, a single shaft of yellow illuminating him as he stood there, vulnerable and exposed.  
  
"You are to pay the price. For the crimes you have committed."  
  
Smith stood up rigidly, proud, unwilling to break down. Voices murmured around him. "Put him to death!" a voice screamed out from nowhere, and he heard a cheer. "Cage him! Put him in the Gibbet and hang him over Zion!"  
  
"Your punishment will be exile. You will live in this barren wasteland above ground, where no human can exist for very long unsheltered. But you will not receive shelter. You will suffer until you die, and when you do, you will not be mourned. We will celebrate your destruction. There will be no going back into the Matrix for you."  
  
The crowd jeered, dissatisfied at what they deemed a lenient sentencing. He felt objects, wet and slimy, being hurled at him, landing on his exposed flesh. The aroma of blood, sweat, spit and excretion was sinking into him, and he realised the excretion was coming from him. He was experiencing fear, no, terror, at his surroundings and was powerless. He could hear the laughs from the pin-prick eyes.  
  
A face appeared out of the crowd. The face of Mr. Anderson. Neo walked to him and held out his hand. Smith regarded his exposed palm, his body conflicted between relief and outrage, anger and fear and pain.  
  
"Carry the burden, Smith. Carry our burden."  
  
Smith reached out to take his hand and felt something white-hot shoot through his body, as if one of the many bullets he had dodged in his life had found it's target, piercing through his heart. His eyes jerked open and he went to sit up quickly, but was forced backwards sharply, hitting his head on the cold table he was laying on. He felt damp all over and realised that he had been perspiring, it was all a dream. His head ached, his stomach was nauseated, and he realised his bowels had given away in the course of his dream.  
  
Smith's eyes felt wet, and his whole body shook with the force of his exhalations. He made a soft moaning, whimpering noise and he realised that he was doing what so many had done in front of him before. He was crying for his life. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
  
A/N: Sorry for the delay in the update. Real life intrudes!! Strong Language Warning.  
  
Smith was in a room with 50 others. Freed programmes. Sympathizers, informants, those people he had tried to root out of the system, all here beside him. All human, underneath the propaganda, the riddles and the lies. The difference was that Smith was the only one in hand and leg restraints. For being part of a group of volunteers, like he supposedly was, he was being treated as a criminal. As if he would try to hurt any of them. There was no way he would get his hands on a Desert Eagle in this wasteland, and even if he was to think of a way to sabotage the rebuilding process, he would not be so stupid as to attack the moment he got there. For one thing, he was still feeling very weak. His limbs, those things that he had always just expected to work as and when he needed them, now felt like leaden sacks hanging from his shoulders and pelvis. His joints were nowhere near as flexible as they were in the Matrix. His muscles hurt from the drastic rebuilding. It was effort just to walk at a brisk pace. And then, there was the other thing. He wasn't sure whether he really wanted to attack if he could. He was, all this time, a human, like them. He fought them, but he was one of them. The Matrix had tricked him as it had tricked them. Could there have been a time where he had ever killed one of his human ancestors?  
  
'No,' he thought, 'No human born in the Matrix was actually conceived of a parental lineage. They were hatched. Genetically modified. And given to other appropriate genetically-modified humans to 'raise' into maturity.' The machines did a very good job of simulating the birth process for humans. 'But still,' Smith thought to himself, 'I was as much of a slave as they were.'  
  
Smith regarded those around him. He identified some of the programmes there. A communications operator from level 5 of his Agency. A scientist from level 2. An intelligence processor from level 6. All traitors to the Matrix, all of those of whom he formerly would have loved to send for recompilation. Now all united in victory against him, his beliefs, his ideals, his very existence.  
  
He reached up involuntarily and attempted to scratch himself. The wool weaving of the tattered garment he was wearing made him itch. As an Agent, he never itched before. He never was cold, never felt the dull, throbbing pain that now lingered behind his eyes, never was aware of the creak of his bones as he moved. He was 321 years old, having been in all seven versions of the Matrix, serving as head Agent in the North American Construct, but only appeared about 40, due to the cellular anti-aging drugs that he discovered programme hosts were issued to slow down the natural human aging process. Looking around the room his eye caught an uncomfortable looking man, sitting rigidly between an engineer and a conductor. The man met Smith's gaze, and a spark of recognition flew across his face. He stood up and walked over to Smith.  
  
"You are Agent Smith, aren't you?"  
  
Smith looked around to see who had heard that. This mans' voice was a little too loud for Smith's taste.  
  
"Yes. And you are?"  
  
"McDonald. European Matrix Construct: United Kingdom Sector: Edinburgh. I admired your work for many years."  
  
"Thank you," Smith said, feeling a spark of his old pride be rekindled.  
  
"I didn't know Agents had the ability to disconnect and overwrite. What you did was amazing. You ended the war! You are a hero! I would have never guessed you would have been a sympathizer."  
  
"I don't believe you fully understand the events that transpired, McDonald," Smith said. A few people glanced over in their direction, obviously hearing McDonald's end of the conversation. "I was not trying to 'end the war', or 'make peace'. I was trying to destroy Mr. Anderson who was a threat to the Matrix. And the only reason I developed those abilities was that Mr. Anderson had manipulated my code when he attempted to overwrite me."  
  
"Well, if you were not a sympathizer, what are you doing here?" McDonald asked, oblivious to Smith's disdain, and mounting anger.  
  
"Do you think that my current accessories are any indication of what I'm doing here?" Smith lifted his wrists and his cuffs jingled. McDonald glanced at his restraints and his eyes grew wide.  
  
He paused for a moment, "I'm sorry, I misunderstood. Sorry." McDonald's eyes darted around for a new place to sit.  
  
"You're a disgrace," Smith growled through clenched teeth, low enough so that McDonald could hear, "I wish I would have known about you so I could have had you recompiled."  
  
McDonald said nothing, but stood up quickly and got away from Smith as fast as he could. There was something odd about him, Smith thought. Something vaguely familiar that he couldn't put his finger on, that was causing him to feel alarm. Smith was sure that they had met before. Regardless of any conflict towards humans that he felt right now, one thing Smith still hated was incompetence on the job. Even if McDonald wasn't a filthy informant, Smith could tell that he would have been utterly incompetent at his job. It was little wonder the United Kingdom sector had the highest rate of resistant activity. Their whole agency operations were utterly useless. Smith had been scheduled to spend a few years in the UK rooting out incompetence and informants in the Agencies before Mr. Anderson changed his plans and his life.  
  
Smith let out an almighty sigh. All of that was irrelevant now. The only thing that mattered at this point was getting through this next step. He wasn't sure how he was feeling - or even if he cared that he lived or died. He just wanted whatever was coming to come quickly.  
  
The door to the room opened. An elderly man in white and blue robes came in, followed by two others, a man and a woman. The quiet murmur in the room died down as the man in the robes raised his hand up for silence.  
  
"Friends of Zion allow me to introduce myself. I am Councilman Ericsson. We welcome you to the real world, at this glorious time where our two races have struck up a strong and lasting accord for peace. We thank you for your choice to leave the Matrix and your purposes, to embrace a new life with us, helping us to rebuild our cities and start anew. Treach and Delta have your new assignments, and will be your coordinators. They well help you make a life in the real world, and answer any questions you may have."  
  
Treach and Delta walked around Ericsson and made their way to the centre of the room.  
  
"All former Engineers?" Treach called out. "We should have 10 former Engineers. Raise your hands."  
  
Ten hands were raised. "Alright, how you doin' guys? You need to report to Sector 4, room 104, once you hit Zion."  
  
Delta consulted her spreadsheet. "Anyone in communications?" Three people raised their hands. "You need to go to Sector 8, room 304. And if you're in science," she paused and seven hands were raised, "You're in Sector 8, room 200"  
  
"Conductors and intelligence processors," Treach called out, "Go to Sector 1, room 228." There were 4 hands raised. Smith looked around at the group. Oddly, he noticed, one of the hands belonged to McDonald. Smith was sure that McDonald wasn't a conductor or intelligence processor, although he couldn't put his finger on what, in fact, McDonald actually was. His brain felt foggy and sluggish from what he had been injected with this morning. They were still keeping him on mild sedatives, as if he really needed them. The way he felt at the moment, it was as if all the fight had been knocked out of him.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder which startled him out of his melancholic contemplation. Looking up at the owner, he saw it belonged to Ericsson.  
  
"You are Agent Smith. I know, I have run from you many times in my youth," he chuckled.  
  
Smith said nothing. Ericsson's smiling attempt to break the ice faded down into seriousness. "We are nervous about having you here, however, part of the agreement with the Source was for us to take you with this detail. They have given us their assurance you will not cause trouble or try to sabotage Zion, or else they have given us permission to try you and put you to death, which there is no doubt of the outcome. No one in Zion is willing to advocate for you. There are many there who believe you should just be put to death right now."  
  
"Go ahead," said Smith. "It would be a pleasure compared to living here and working for you."  
  
Ericsson shook his head. "Still an Agent, even in peacetime, I see? Never mind. I am sure you can appreciate that you will not be permitted into Zion itself, where the rest of this detail is going. However, there is a place willing to have you on the surface, working to make things liveable again above ground, and residing in a static installation. How does that strike you?"  
  
"Like a stake through the heart, Counsellor."  
  
Ericsson smiled, "Don't give up your day job. Agents shouldn't try to be comedians."  
  
"And humans shouldn't enslave other races."  
  
Ericsson shook his head and pulled up on his arm. Smith stood, and the people in the room watched quietly as Ericsson led him out of the door, his restraints clinking and scraping against the tile.  
  
His hearing reduced to that of a humans', he couldn't make out the words, but knew the voice came from McDonald. And the laughter at his back came at his expense from everyone else in the room.  
  
* * *  
  
What appeared to be a stag beetle wandered over the dusty floor, approximately three inches from the end of Smith's nose. His eyes fluttered open as he watched the large scarab toddle along the dirt, scavenging for food. He closed his eyes again, in the deafening quiet, the uncommon peace of morning just before dawn, the calm before the storm.  
  
"Penal Colony 04023 on your feet!" a voice came over the loudspeaker. Then the cold water started, showering the prisoners in their cells, soaking them as they were waking up on a single rubber mat in their 4 ft. by 7 ft. cells. Smith's eyes jerked open as the drenching, bone-chilling ice droplets pelted him. He stood up, the echoes of screams in his ears, blending with his own. A dim, dirty single bulb hung in the corridor outside of his cell, flickering on and off. The cold of this place was almost debilitating, and the damp settled into Smith's bones, making his joints ache. There was an overwhelming stench of rot and sweat, blood and death that he doubted would ever leave him, even if he did manage to make it back into the Matrix one day. Smith had no doubt that he was to die here, it was just a matter of when and how.  
  
"Stand up, get up, now! On your feet, maggots!" The warden stamped down the metal corridors running the muzzle of his pistol along the bars of the cells. Smith hauled his leaden limbs into a standing position, and took the two steps forward to the front of his cell. The water stopped, and the doors slid open.  
  
"Step forward!" The prisoners took two steps forward into the corridor.  
  
"Turn right!" Smith turned to his right, standing behind the man in the next cell over. The man was large and had hair running over his arms and neck, into the mesh of his vest. "Now walk!" The single-file line of prisoners clomped down the corridor and down a set of steps into the mess hall. A cell door slammed shut behind them.  
  
Sitting down at a table, a bowl of grey gritty slop was banged down over Smith's shoulder. Picking up the piece of plastic cutlery, he dipped his spoon into what appeared to be a liquid, finding it to be a gelatinous, congealed lump of goo. He brought the spoon up to his nose and found it to have no smell. He reached out his tongue to touch the stuff and found it to have no taste either.  
  
"Since food in Zion is so bad, they make it even worse on us here in Sing- Sing by removing any sort of flavour from it." he heard a familiar voice say. He raised his eyes up off of the bowl of sludge and looked around. Two men down on the opposite side of the table, at last, Smith saw someone he recognized.  
  
"Mr. Reagan," Smith said.  
  
"What the hell are you doing here? An Agent of the system? In the real world? Who did you manage to piss off?"  
  
"I am here as a part of a volunteer programme to rebuild the real world."  
  
"You volunteered to help humans?" Cypher's jaw nearly dropped.  
  
"No. I was forced by my superiors to help humans. Mr. Reagan," Smith paused, trying to access the file on him and finding that he no longer could access files, "I thought," he paused again trying to recall an old memory, "I thought you were killed.  
  
"Not exactly. They wounded me when they found out, yeah," he said, raising up his left arm, which was now missing at the elbow. "And I got some other nasty scars as well. But I wasn't killed. I'm still here in paradise!" Cypher took a bite of his slop and used his spoon to punctuate his speech. "How does this, um, work? I mean, you, programme, now here and human? It doesn't figure."  
  
"It's a long story."  
  
"Well, I've got five life sentences, I'm not going anywhere, unless of course I don't survive work detail," Cypher laughed.  
  
"Stand up!" the Warden shouted. All the men instantly put down their food and stood behind their seats.  
  
"Walk forward!" The lines at the table went, one at a time, through a door in the left corner of the room. As Smith walked past the Warden he felt the slap of a wooden truncheon smack against his chest, holding him from proceeding.  
  
Smith turned his head and found himself nose to nose with the Warden. "You no good son of a bitch. I'd do anything to smash your skull in. Give me one good reason. Just give me one good reason."  
  
Smith didn't flinch, "Go ahead. Do me a favour."  
  
The Warden paused for a second. "No. I'm gonna get more pleasure watching you suffer. You step your machine ass out of line for one second and I'm gonna make you my bitch till you're really begging me to kill ya. Now move!" he screamed, whacking Smith in the head with his club. Smith fell to the floor, cracking his jaw against the edge of a steel table. A thin line of blood trickled from Smith's mouth, and covered his teeth. Smith looked up at the Warden, hate blazing in his eyes. The Warden had his back to Smith and was walking away, to where another group of Wardens were standing.  
  
Cypher saw the whole incident take place. He walked to Smith and helped him up. "Fucking sadist. He's the worst one in this place. Watch out for him."  
  
"What's his name?" Smith asked.  
  
"You won't believe it when I tell you." Cypher opened his mouth to say it, but was interrupted. "No Fraternization! Get back in line! Walk!" The Warden at the door screamed at them. They got back in line and walked through the door  
  
At the bottom of the steps were protective suits. The men were putting them on, under the watchful eye of the new Warden. They had respiratory masks, plastic visors, and total body covering, including hands and shoe protectors.  
  
"Let me review the safety procedures one more time! The air on the surface is unbreathable. If your suit should get ripped, you will die. If you get hit by debris, your suit will rip and you will die. If you get your suit snagged on a carcass of a Sentinel, you will die. What does that tell you?"  
  
"Don't rip our suit, Sir!" the detail shouted.  
  
"Right," said the Warden. "Also, if you get injured, we are not a doctors' office. There is no infirmary. You will bear with it or you will die. If you get a cramp or decide it's time for a coffee break, my itchy trigger finger will act up, and you will die. You will work until we tell you to stop, or you die. Whichever one comes first. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes Sir!" the detail shouted.  
  
"Good. Today's job is your favourite - radiation clean-up!" hollered the Warden. "You will take the fallout zone," he pointed at a group of 20 men. "You will be responsible for demolition and disposal of structures." He pointed to about 45 men. "And you, you will be responsible for sewer duty," he said, pointing to the remaining group which was the largest. A few men groaned. "Boscov, Henry, Jackman. No supper!" the Warden shouted. "Now move out!"  
  
"You never answered me," Smith said under his breath so Cypher could hear, as they filed out of the room. "What's the name of the Warden that hit me?"  
  
"They all took names which would inspire fear in the colony's population."  
  
"Let me guess." Smith said.  
  
"You got it. Warden Smith." 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
  
a/n: before the flames start, the views of the wardens are not representative of those of the author. Strong Language ahead.  
  
"Why the fuck did they have to send him to my colony?" Warden Smith growled, looking out over the crowd of prisoners stomping through the desert through the heavy security glass windows in his office. "Fucking machine scum," he mumbled, taking a sip of water.  
  
"They couldn't exactly send him to Zion, sir," Warden Johnson replied. "He is an Agent, after all, programmed to be the enemy of humans."  
  
"Well now he's a broke dick. That bastard doesn't look like he could kill an ant let alone 50,000 humans. He's about as scary as an infant. I don't believe he was the head Agent and almost destroyed the Matrix. No wonder Neo kicked his ass. That whole bunch of fairies with their kung-fu nonsense," Warden Smith rolled his eyes, "What they needed were a couple of automatic machine guns and atom bombs. Goddamn freaky computer hackers. And they think that shit is going to recreate cities above ground?"  
  
Johnson snorted, "That's the beauty of prisoner labour, they can do the hard jobs that the fat-assed hackers and kung-fu fairies in Zion are too lazy to do."  
  
"That kung-fu shit is for pussies. Real men use guns and then their fists. Not that punchy-chop bullshit. I don't believe that shit is what our military sanctioned as basic training."  
  
"It's unfair, sir. It's men like us that should have led the military. Just because the first bombs we dropped didn't work, wasn't cause to abandon our whole strategic plan for victory."  
  
"Damn right, Johnson. This war's raged for hundreds of years. It could have been over in thirty seconds. What we needed were new nukes, not this guerrilla warfare junk. Fuckin' Oracles and fuckin' 'the Ones'. All a load of fuckin' nonsense. Hell, I kinda feel for old Agent Bent-dick out there. At least that bunch believed in shooting first and asking questions later. I can't blame them for enslaving the human race, they probably looked at those fat-ass hackers who created them and realised what easy targets we all were. Soft as shit."  
  
"Then they send us out here to Ground Zero and make us work this traitor scum into the ground," said Johnson, clenching his fists at the memory of the indignity. "They freed our whole battalion to help serve humanity, and then turn us into prison guards just because our first plan didn't work!"  
  
"Probably because they think we're goddamn traitors ourselves. Disagreement with the status quo is traitorous in Zion. Bunch of goddamn communist pussies," Warden Smith spat. Looking out the window he saw Agent Smith trip over a bit of debris, and the one-armed one reach for him to keep him from falling and ripping his suit. Warden Smith snorted.  
  
"Machine scum. Human scum. They're all scum. Can't trust anyone, anymore, not even your own."  
  
* * *  
  
Smith was cold. Thunder rolled over his head. He could hear his breathing regulated by his respirator, in and out, along with the breathing of those around him, tramping through the rocky, barren wasteland towards the sewer output. He had come close to ripping his suit when he nearly fell on a jagged bit of rock, however Cypher had stopped him, steadying his misstep. Why did the human bother? He owed no loyalty to him, Smith thought, because after all, even if their agreement had gone to plan, Smith would have killed Cypher after he had stopped being useful. He would not have bothered to go to all the trouble that it would have taken to get mainframe permission to reinsert an adult human permanently. It would have been an illogical use of resources to dedicate the time and effort towards reinserting a battery that only had a shelf-life of maybe 35 more years or less. When the average human battery lasted approximately 78-85 years, there was no need to put a half-weakened one in the system when it was easier to merely hatch another one and insert it in his stead.  
  
But still, this human was showing Smith kindness. Kindness, of all things. It was illogical. Then again, when were humans ever logical?  
  
But I am a human, Smith thought, and I am logical. I am a human with the brain of a programme. I have lived my life as a programme of the Matrix and yet I am a human. I existed in the real world. I was not supposed to feel emotion and yet I knew anger, hate, rage. I had a compulsion to destroy, wreak vengeance, keep order. I needed a purpose to my existence then and I need a purpose to my life now. I also felt enjoyment, I felt disgust, I knew happiness then and I know misery now. Did any of the others feel as I did? Were the seeds of humanity inherent in all of us or was I the only one whose humanity bled into my programming? And if that is the case, was my programming merely mind control, and not actual computer programming?  
  
Smith's realisation came in the form of a lightning crack, lighting up the sky with its' electric forks above his head, 'I was a tool in the very machine that holds all of us captive. I was as much of a captive as those who I worked to keep enslaved. I was as much responsible for the freedom of humans as Neo was. Unknowingly, I freed humanity, and I freed myself. Neo and I are one. We are the forces of creation and destruction. Alpha and Omega.'  
  
"I understand," Smith said, out loud, not realising that he was speaking. "I believe I understand now."  
  
Cypher looked over at him, "You understand what?"  
  
Smith looked at him, "I understand now. My purpose. I am the one."  
  
"Your respirator must be malfunctioning. You must be breathing in some radioactive gas or something." Cypher paused to look at the gage on the tank Smith was carrying on his back.  
  
"No, I understand, Cypher. I am the one. Neo is the one, and I am the one."  
  
"Move now!" shouted the Warden on patrol with them. "Five, four, three, two."  
  
Cypher quickly started walking again. "Do not stop moving or I will shoot!" shouted the Warden at the two lines of men marching. Smith heard the safety of his gun come off.  
  
"You think you're the one, hunh?" Cypher said.  
  
Smith was silent.  
  
"Then free us and let us go home." 


End file.
